In the Chamber of the King of Krazmer
The royal chamber was vast—wide as a treasury, laden with splendour. The walls shimmered with veins of golden stones of magic, and beneath the great chandelier above, King Migelroz's right hand waited. He sat motionless, though his face burned with rage. His cane trembled between his fingers as he sipped the bitter tea, tasting of seawater and the stench of fish that clung to the air.
Sunlight bled through a stained-glass window shaped like a maiden with hair of blue-amber, her lower body the tail of a many-finned mermaid. Her scales gleamed like cut sapphires against her pale, sand-white skin. The soft chime of bells, hung upon the window, sang faintly as the light struck them. The reflections danced across the room and over the pearl-white carpet that seemed woven from the shells of oysters.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty, for the interruption."
The great door groaned open. Two maids hurried in, bearing a parchment delivered by an armoured knight—though no one dared to wear that armour now. Neither woman looked toward the far wall, for there was no window there.
Instead, there stood a vast glass tank. And within it—no fish swam, but a mermaid bound in chains of sorcery, a seal clamped about her neck, mana leaking from her body like mist.
She drifted weakly in the water, her tears unending. Her sorrow had become song. That song filled the chamber like the lament of a caged bird, and the king, cloaked in the robes of a holy sovereign, listened with quiet pleasure. His crown gleamed with a single pale gem—a tear of a mermaid, set upon gold. Those who had travelled far and wide would recognise it instantly.
He was the ruler of the seaport kingdom—Krazmer—lord of lands spanning both holy coasts. And as he stood beside the glass prison of the weeping siren, he spoke.
"Little mermaid, are you still grieving? I have searched for your kind. I have longed for you to love me, as I love you."
The room's air pulsed faintly with the residue of magic—an acrid scent of scorched dust, as though the ghost of a spell had burned itself to ash upon the marble table. Migelroz sat across from the king, his patience withering, disgust plain upon his face.
The king, fallen from grace, smiled faintly. He was like a man listening to a songbird beg for release, but he would never open the cage. Migelroz said nothing. His silence was a fire.
"When," Migelroz finally spoke, "will Your Majesty take the defence of this kingdom seriously? You saw what I saw! That happened in the heart of the city! Look at them—our knights too terrified even to escort their prisoners. Your Majesty, how long will you sit idle?"
The king said nothing. He merely returned to his chair, the golden light glinting across his proud eyes. His gaze was not empty nor sad—it was arrogance made flesh, a quiet cruelty so deep that even a scholar like Migelroz dared not meet it for long.
The king sighed once. He lifted a crystal cup, drank from it. The liquid within had been drawn from the mermaid's tank.
Migelroz's throat tightened as he watched. His stomach turned.
"Prosonkh," said the king quietly, "your men were there too, were they not? Why did you not handle it yourself? From the mud you rose—a soldier from the filth of the beasts' pens—to a scholar of the Runic Stones. And yet, like all of your kind, you returned to lick the mire from your hands. You need not worry for this kingdom, Migelroz. Worry for yourself—and your men. As for the knights you sent to seize them, I never ordered that. You acted of your own accord. I will deal with your insubordination later, my right hand."
The words, calm as silk, cut deeper than any blade. Migelroz said nothing. His face remained cold, but his eyes burned with hatred—hatred for the man before him, hatred shared by every knight and noble who dared not speak it aloud.
For power had chained them all.
"Your Majesty," came a voice. "They've arrived. Our knights are holding them outside."
"Come closer, my dear," said the king. "It seems something clings to your back."
The maid knew full well that her back was clean. But she could not resist. The king's hand slid to her waist, dragging her forward. Her pale-blue dress shifted; the fabric thinned to white silk beneath, her bare back catching the light. She froze, powerless.
The king's dry fingers—parched from years of drinking the sea's tears—traced her spine, then his tongue, long and serpentine, followed. He licked downward slowly, and when she shuddered, he struck her to the floor.
Her head hit marble. Blood trickled down her brow. Migelroz did not move, did not speak. His silence was a curse upon the room.
"Bring me another robe," said the king softly.
And the scene shifted—from that vault of corruption—to the grand gates of the palace beyond.
The gates rose like carved stonework of a bygone war, beautiful and terrible. The knights held their captives: foreign warriors and scholars accused of inciting chaos in the city.
"This gate," one said, "would look stranger still if it bore no flame at night."
"I was here once," said another, "when I was to be named a Scholar of the Rune. By the king's right hand—the same voice we heard through the spell earlier."
The doors opened. Women of high birth emerged, dressed as servants of the king—too regal to be mere attendants, too graceful to speak. They were there only to please their master.
The long hall stretched ahead. Knights dismounted, pointing their silver pikes toward the prisoners. The nobles, standing behind silk veils, looked on with disdain.
When the final horse struck the stone floor, the gate sealed shut with a cold rush of air.
Along the passage hung paintings—saints, knights, and seas in storm.
Vionneir slowed her steps, her eyes tracing the art as though recalling something she once loved.
"I miss when this place still painted," she murmured. "Look at these—beautiful, aren't they? But pathetic too. Who thought to hang paintings in the king's halls? How desperate."
Her voice dripped with mockery.
A noblewoman bristled, but when she turned to scold her, she met Vionneir's eyes—red as a burning dahlia—and the words died in her throat.
They walked on. Each opened door revealed more splendour: statues wrought by mages, light from chandeliers rippling like waves upon white marble floors. The walls sang of faith—priests forever frozen before a light divine.
It was beauty carved from obedience.
Prosonkh had seen these things before. He served the faith that built them. But the dreams that haunted him whispered of something beyond devotion.
"I don't mind the red carpet," said Helm, another of the warriors. "But it clashes with the white beneath. Shall I give it a failing mark?"
The nobles glared. Mages continued painting with mana-light, mostly seascapes—oceans that moved faintly when you stared too long. The marble beneath the carpets gleamed like sand beneath shallow water.
"Prosonkh," muttered the monk chained at his side, "how long must we carry this man?"
The man he bore was thin, frail, unclothed—a body like a forgotten relic.
Prosonkh only turned his head.
"Those two believe he is important," he said quietly. "And I think so too. The dreams, the visions—they all began after he appeared. What happens next, I can't yet say. Miracles are difficult to explain, especially those that visit once in a thousand years."
At last they reached the final gate.
Before them stood a colossal suit of armour, empty, towering like a sentinel of death. The knights lowered their spears. The gate, engraved with the image of a ship descending a waterfall, opened wide.
The first thing they saw within—was a throne, carved to resemble the curling of ocean waves.
It stood empty.
The maid who had guided them earlier ran forward and knelt before the steps of that vacant seat.
"Prosonkh! You traitor!"
The shout came from above, from the man descending the marble stairs—Migelroz, the king's right hand. His staff struck with every step, echoing through the chamber. His wrath was legend. None dared cross him.
"You never deserved your title! You humiliated me before the council, you—worthless thing!"
Prosonkh stopped, turned, and stepped forward.
The two warriors moved aside. He faced his accuser.
And as their eyes met, the air shifted—the mermaid behind the throne screamed, thrashing in her prison of water.
The suits of armour that lined the hall began to move.
Their halberds gleamed like mirrors.
They stepped forward as if commanded by unseen will.
And on the throne, where no one had sat before, now reclined a figure.
"Welcome, visitors," said the king of Krazmer. His smile was a wound. "At last you shall learn what it means to know your place."
The figure carried in the monk's arms stirred.
Eyelids fluttered, dreams crashing like waves—millions upon millions.
The king's laughter faded, and the one who slept could no longer tell whose voice he heard, nor what world he belonged to anymore.